A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine. Later that night, after she had cleaned herself and changed her clothes, he returned. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis. The shock and distress were genuine. “Martin, you realize that I’m dating someone, don’t you?” She knew his reply before he uttered it. A moment before he had been a strong man, she had been in his power, a poor helpless thing. “I’ll be here at one in the morning. Eh bien, she must use her tongue against him.
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